


The Devil's Tattoo

by anglophilia



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, M/M, Smoking, kavinsky is a tattoo artist, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 20:16:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9564626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anglophilia/pseuds/anglophilia
Summary: Kavinsky is a tattoo artist and Prokopenko desperately wants a tattoowritten because I longed for something softer when it came to these idiotswritten from Proko's POV





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As I said I wanted to write something softer about these assholes, so it could be slightly OOC, it's not sugar coated fluffy fluff though. 
> 
> Also there's isn't much action in this part, I'm sorry!  
> I'll upload the rest tomorrow!

Prokopenko had thought about getting a tattoo for ages, had thought about the right motive for years, because he wanted something that counts, as tacky as that may sound. Then, all his careful plans fell overboard when he stumbled on the website of some small tattoo studio, not too far from his home. All the designs were just beautiful, bursting with colour, looking so real and Prokopenko was in love. The other artists on the site were great too, some Jiang was apparently amazing at portraits, while Swan’s work was mostly watercolour art, with flowers and leaves, but this guy, this „K“ how he’s called on the website. His designs were from another world, complicated ornate pieces. They were overladden with details and symbols, making his head spin if he looked too long at them. He wanted this, wanted this guys designs on every single inch of his skin. He was nervous when he picked up his phone to schedule a meeting, expecting having to wait a year or more to get inked by that guy. Fortunately, the guy on the phone told him they could fit him in Wednesday in a week. He was shaking a bit when he saved the date in his phone, right between school and „Birthday dinner“. A tattoo was good present to himself for his eighteenth birthday. 

 

A week later found him skipping last period, he hated english anyways, and nervously smoking in the park just a block from the studio. It was a hot day for spring and he had pushed his school blazer in his bag and loosened his tie. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to his elbow, exposing his paper white skin, that would soon turn an ugly reddish shade once summer arrives. People always said he looked like a ghost, that is if they noticed him.  
Every little scrab or bruise he got would show up on his body immediately. Prokopenko’s hair was naturally a dark ashy blonde, but a few months ago he had dyed it white too. If people already ignored him or thought he was a ghost he might as well look like one. It had at least made him feel better in his body and a few funny looks at school. His mother had cried, because she thought the devil was behind everything. His father had smashed a bowl and struck him right across the face with his big and heavy hand. The imprint had been visible for days. They had grounded his for weeks and had not been allowed any dinner. His chores at home had doubled and Sunday school had been obligatory again. He took the last drag of his cigarette and smashed it in the ground. He should start praying his parents would not find out about his tattoo until he had moved out and gone off to college. He could still bolt he thought as he looked at his watch and got up. There was a bus two streets away that would take him home again. But Prokopenko turned in the opposite direction, half jogging across the street. No matter what punishments his parents would come up with, K’s design would be worth it.  
The studio was easy enough to find, the only business, apart from a grocer, in a remote street. The building it was in was fairly new, and the huge windows at the front were darkened, showing only two neon signs – one with the name „The Dream Pack“, the other simply saying „tattoo“. Prokopenko looked in his bag to reassure himself that he had the envelope with his saved money. He closed the bag again when he saw it and run a hand nervously through his hair, before he pushed open the door. No turning back.  
Prokopenko did not exactly know what he expected when he walked into the studio. Something friendly and modern, hipster even, considering the neighbourhood and everything or one of those studios with red walls and dark, gothic designs everywhere. In way it was like both of that combined. Where he could see the walls, there were a nice shade of dark blue, with some black ornaments on top of it, but most of them were covered in pictures, designs, fotographs, skateboards and neon signs. There were only an empty reception desk, right in the middle, and two huge leather couches on either side of the room. Behind the reception desk he saw a corridor leading to other rooms. He could hear the faint hum of the needle. It smelled like leather, ink and weirdly enough for a tattoo studio, curry.

Before he could say anything a guy stepped out from one the rooms, wiping his hands on a napkin, looking him up and down. The man was the exact opposite of Prokopenko, he was tall and muscular, wearing a green tanktop and some dark jeans. His deep black skin was covered in beautiful white ornaments, with vines and tandris winding around on his arms.  
„Can I help you?“, he asked, not unfriendly, but quite suspicious. Prokopenko knew he looked like small child compared to him, although he was probably in his mid twenties.  
He coughed a bit, feeling his cheeks redden and forced himself not to stare the tattoos.  
„I have an appointment“, he started, his voice sound thin and shrill to his ears, „Prokopenko.“ The guy’s eyebrows were knitted together as he look at the schedule book, tapping his finger to his name on the list. „Do you have some ID? Or a permission from your parents.“ Prokopenko’s cheeks reddened even more and he hastily opened his bag to get his wallet with his ID. „It’s my birthday today, actually“, he said, when he could not find it immediately, his voice sounding even thinner than before. The guy just kept silently staring at him until Prokopenko handed him his ID.  
„Well, happy birthday. K will be here in a minute or so, depending on his mood.“  
Prokopenko just thanked him as he handed him his ID back and sat down on the sofa, after the guy had motioned him to sit down in it, before leaving again. 

 

Being alone now, Prokopenko let out a loud sigh a buried his face in his hands, he was rattling with nerves, his hands shaking slightly. The empty room seemed to amplify any noise, the humming needle and the ticking of a clock, hidden somewhere in the mess of pictures on the wall, impossible loud in his ears. He thinking about bolting when the door opened with a loud bang and the most gorgeous guy he had ever seen walked in. The guy was a bit taller than him and tanned. A red tanktop exposed his lean muscles and the colourful medley of tattoos on his arms. His jeans were torn and dirty, yet his shoes were blindingly white, his hair was hidden by a red snapback and his eyes shaded by white-rimmed sunglasses. He was muttering to himself in a language Prokopenko did not really recognize, but it sounded a bit like russian. He threw the skateboard he was holding before in the corner and his snapback on the sofa. Prokopenko now saw that his hair was a dark shade of blond, similar to his own but warmer and not as ashy. He put his glasses on his tanktop and turned his gaze to Prokopenko. „And who the fuck are you supposed to be?“, he spit out, with a faint trace of an eastern accent. „Prokopenko“, Prokopenko answered, forcing his voice to sound normal and his body not to squirm und the stranger’s gaze. „I have an appointment with K“, he added, feigning confidence, just to confirm to the stranger and himself that he had a right to be there. Suddenly the guys face changed and he grinned at him, like a shark at it’s prey. „Oh, I can’t wait to put my mark on you.“


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is not the end lol   
> I changed my plans while writing and now there will be three parts. 
> 
> Part Three will be uploaded tomorrow!

Prokopenko followed K into a room at the right end of the corridor, where is personal work space was. K told him to sit down and Prokopenko obliged, climbing on the tattoo chair, his feet dangling a few inches above the ground. It was completely quiet in the room even the sound of the needle from before had faded away and even here the walls were full with designs and pictures, he recognized some of them from their website. They were all K’s.   
„So, what do you want?“, the other asked suddenly.   
Prokopenko was snatched from his thoughts for a moment and shrugged: „Anything from you, really.“ The shark like grin was back and K leaned back in his seat, hands folded behind his head and regarded him. Prokopenko felt strangely exposed under his gaze again, but he did not squirm and met his gaze when he looked him in the eyes again. Prokopenko bit his lip and looked at his hands, before speaking again, his voice more quiet than usual: „I had an idea before I came here, but...I don’t just want you doing it, I want one of your designs, they’re...they’re breathtaking.“ K just tilted his head and smiled at him, not the shark like grin from before, but something softer. That made Prokopenko nervous and he began to ramble: „I don’t know where I want it though, probably on my thigh and not too big. I need to hide it.“ At his last remark Kavinsky scoffed, but he said: „And you’d really take anything?“ Prokopenko nodded. „What do you say about, say, an underwater scene with sharks?“   
„That would be great! I love sharks“, he exclaimed.   
„I could also do a huge pile of shit, would you still get it?“   
There was amusement in his voice and yet Prokopenko felt tested, so he just and nodded: „It would remind me what a huge pile of shit you are.“ They both laughed and when K stood between his legs to measure his thigh, he was still grinning. Then he stepped back and turned to makes notes a piece of paper.  
„I’ll work on it, you can come back next week.“  
„But I thought I’d get it today? I have the money and everything.“ K turned half around, eyebrows raised high. „I’m still not a machine that spits out art, that takes time.“ His voice was ice cold and a shiver ran down Prokopenko’s spine. „I didn’t mean it like that, it’s just...it’s my birthday. I was really looking forward to it.“ He sighed, running a hand through his hair, sliding off the chair.   
„How old?“, K asked, only turning around after Prokopenko answered.   
„Well, it would be a shame to sent you home again your birthday, wouldn’t it? How do you feel about piercings?“

The piercing still felt weird a few hours later. He had his bellybutton pierced and could help himself from fidgeting around with it throughout dinner with his parents. He knew he should probably stop it, should let it heal, but everytime he touched it, it reminded him, that K had touched him. Reminded him about how appreciatingly he had looked at him, his eyes dark and hungry. He bit his lip thinking about how it would feel to have him touch his thigh for hours. He ran a hand through his hair while looking around his room for clothes. After he had gotten his piercing, K had invited him to a party. He had planned on sneaking out anyways so he had gladly agreed. Something about K just drew him in. He was already wearing dark skinny jeans, that did wonders to his ass and legs. Normally he would wear a flashy tanktop with it, but he wanted to show his new piercing. Unhappy with every top he own, he decided to cut off the bottom half of a neon pink one. He put his phone, cigarettes and lighter in his pockets and ran his fingers through his hair. He hid the clothes again, so parents would not find out, then opened the window and climbed out of his window.


End file.
